


Kiss prompts

by etal



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Mistaken Identity, tumblr ficlets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-15 22:47:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19305394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etal/pseuds/etal
Summary: Ficlets based on the kiss prompts list on tumblr, various shades of charmieI. Spin the Bottle, for anonII. Jealous kiss, for rubyintyaleIII. Caught off Guard, for anon





	Kiss prompts

I. **Spin the Bottle**

Stop 97 on the unending Promo tour. Drunk. Edging into sloppy drunk and no idea of what time it is, what city it is, what country it is. The hotel rooms all look the same after the third, fourth, fifth stop of the month. At least in London you could tell it was the UK because the food was terrible and the price of the booze was enough to sober you up.

Armie tips the last fews drops of vodka into his glass and knocks it back. Tim is watching him from across the room, chin on his knees, arms wrapped around himself, a neat knot of a boy. They’re both on the floor, Armie against the bed, his shirt unbuttoned to his waist. They wrestled, earlier. Armie had knocked Tim over easily, taken him out at the knees, pressed him backwards, sat over him with his knees on either side of him, pinning his hands over his head and couldn’t move from there, eyes locked onto Tim’s sweet smirking mouth.

“I win,” Tim had whispered.

Armie sets the bottle on its side. “Next game. Spin the Bottle,” he says.

“We’re the only people here Armie,” Tim replies.

“So?”

“Not much … competition.”

“Chicken?”

“Fuck off.”

Tim crawls over and settles himself cross-legged, mirroring Armie. He folds his hands into his lap like they’re about to begin group meditation.

“You can have a head start,” says Armie, with a polite wave of his hand.

“Fuck. Off,” Tim says again, but he reaches out and spins the bottle

He spins it hard, “good one” Armie observes, following the revolutions until they start making him dizzy. It slows and stops, pointing at Armie’s left knee.

“So… you?” Tim asks, pointing, as if there’s some doubt.

Armie looks around, “Oh man, shit, I guess it is.”

“Ooookkkkaaay, hope you’re ready for this,” Tim leans over, balancing on his palms and Armie closes his eyes. For a few seconds, nothing happens. Is Tim just looking at him? Armie feels Tim’s breath on his cheek, he hears the slight liquid slip of lips parting, there’s the lightest feather-touch to his mouth, then it’s gone.

Armie can’t help following to catch that touch back so when he opens his eyes, he’s leaning foolishly forward into thin air. Tim’s back in his pretzel fold, waiting.

“Your turn,” he smiles.

Armie spins the bottle. It points dead straight at Tim.

“Not again. This is a fix,” he says.

Armie beckons. Tim shakes his head. Little shit. Armie stretches out his legs, locks them round Tim’s back and drags him closer until he can get his hands on his face. He holds Tim there, tips his head back and keeps him waiting. Two can play at this… game? He doesn’t kiss him. Lets him go. Tim shrugs, shuffles back to his place.

“Again?” he asks - not with words, with his eyebrows, with his whole quizzical, beautiful face. Armie nods.

The bottle spins and ends pointing back at Tim.

“Tricky logistics,” Tim says.

‘Take something off then.”

The next four spins find Tim like he’s true north. On his turn, Armie gets a hold of him again, and kisses him properly, tasting him deep and slow, until Tim is trembling, until his hand shakes when it’s his turn to reach for the stupid bottle. The next spin gets his pants off. The next has him in Armie’s lap; it’s supposed to be Armie’s kiss but Tim steals it from him and uses it to tipple his tongue against Armie’s lips and dip between them until Armie has to growl and grab the back of his neck and reclaim the kiss as his own. By the fifth spin, Tim only has his boxers on and Armie has his finger tips resting on the bottle.

“If it lands on me," he says, "you’re going back to your own room and we’re never going to talk about this again.”

“And if it’s me?”

“Then you’re going to take those off and get on the bed and I’m going suck your cock and then I’m gonna fuck you until you come so hard you beg me for mercy.”

“You think?” Tim scoffs. “You and whose army?”

“Only ever needed one of those.”

Armie spins the bottle.

*******

 

II. **Paradiso (Jealous Kiss - angst, hazily unspecific futurefic** )

It took Armie an hour or two of futzing round with different programmes and watching a couple of youtube videos about how to make edits or gifs (jifs? still didn’t know, whatever) but once he’d worked it out, it was a cinch. So now he has it: two minutes and forty-two seconds of a perfect piece of private self-harm he likes to call ‘Timotheé Paradiso’.

On one of the Crema nights, Luca had shown them Tornatore's _Cinema Paradiso_. “Sentimental of course,” he’d said, pouring more wine, “but lovely.” In the last scene, a director sits alone in a movie theatre and watches a reel of great cinematic kisses, saved from the censor’s scissors and spliced together by the director’s long-lost mentor. Luca had muttered the provenance of each kiss: “Cary Grant… Jane Russell… Valentino, my god I died for that film when I first saw it… _Le notti bianche_ \- Visconti’s best - remind me Armie, there is a scene in it I must show you before Bergamo… Garbo…there she is…”

Armie had looked down at Timmy, tucked in at his side, wet eyes fixed on the screen and a wobble round his mouth. Armie would have liked to mock him for falling for the film’s easy moves but, honestly, he’d been fighting his own tears since the little kid saved the old guy from the fire and he didn’t trust his voice to come out right.

“Give me one like that, boys,” Luca said, as Ingrid Bergman swooned into a kiss with Spencer Tracy, “and you’ll win an Oscar.”

They did, but they didn’t. Armie doesn’t have an Oscar. And he doesn’t have Tim anymore. The world has Tim.

He doesn’t have Tim’s kisses, he doesn’t have his mouth, hesitant and hot and so, so soft. He doesn’t have his jaw which Armie could catch between finger and thumb, keep him stilled so he could look and look at his lips and see how long he could keep himself from licking them. It was never long. He’d drained the bank of his own kisses, paying them out in a heedless spending spree across Tim’s body, forgetting to treasure each one as it landed on his brow, on his thighs, his belly. He doesn’t have even the memory of their first kiss: he weirdly can’t really remember when it happened for the first time for real, when the line between performance and life was crossed. He told the story of them being ordered to make out so often - hilarious, tell it again - he isn’t even sure whether it’s true or not. The kisses he can remember only torment him with their loss. He can recall watching Tim sleep in the early hours, the sound of rain falling and his quiet breathing, until Armie couldn’t help but lean in and touch Tim’s lips with his own, barely there, very softly, not wanting to wake him. Or the time of the frantic, bruising kisses when Tim had been upset, made worried and angry by Armie’s pretended indifference towards the end of the shoot, giving way to something gentle and apologetic, kisses doing the work that mumbles and half-words couldn’t.

But, yeah, remembered with perfect clarity or not, they’re all in the past tense. Armie doesn’t have Tim anymore.

Instead Armie has Timotheé Paradiso. It’s every on-screen kiss Tim has ever shot, inexpertly edited together into a messy string. The ratios are uneven, the sound quality is intermittently crappy because he couldn’t be bothered to wait for an HD version of _Rainy Day in New York_ and there was no way he was paying for _Hot Summer Nights_ , but it does the job.

It’s an earned ritual now. Late at night, Armie settles with his tablet, and watches it over and over. King Tim kisses Lily-Rose. It’s kind of awkward but Tim makes it work. Hair restored, he kisses Saorise. Fucked up and too thin, but guilty-hot in a shower in _Beautiful Boy_. His comic kissing of Selena is a riot, it makes Armie laugh every time. A prettily modest press of the lips for Florence in _Little Women_ , sweet, even if the film itself ruined Armie’s 2019 Christmas by making Tim so luminously beautiful that he had to keep leaving the screening he was in, pretending to take calls but really going to the bathroom and kicking a stall door off its hinges. Gerwig is a fucking menace.

The kisses with Zendaya make Armie grit his teeth but he doesn’t look away. He’s pretty sure that this was when the gaps between texts started getting longer. They were unravelling, Armie had known it, and the Tim who is kissing that beautiful girl with leading-man authority would have made his mind up by this point.

There’s a gap at the end of the _Dune_ clips before the _Call Me By Your Name_ kisses start. Armie never intended his reel of kisses to be chronological. He didn’t quite mean it to be as it is though. He fucked up somehow and cued the clips wrongly and they ended up backwards, so it starts with Bergamo and ends with their first kiss. He’d decided that he prefers it in this order, it’s as if all the layers of kisses that are smudging up Tim’s face are peeled off him, like swiping away make-up to reveal clean skin after you’ve been under studio lights, and he’s left as he was when Armie first met him, bright and fresh and smiling, untouched.

Armie pauses his film. Oliver is stretching out his hand, he’s about to put a fingertip to Elio’s lips, trace them, curl in as if to touch the inside of Elio's mouth. Armie remembers every moment, how daring he felt, how electric the seconds were before he touched the warm curves of Tim’s mouth. He zooms in, puts his face close to his tablet, stares until the image smudges, leans in and kisses the smooth skin of the screen. He is stupidly jealous of everyone who came after him, but what greater fool could there be than a man who has learned to be jealous of himself, looking in from the outside, where he shivers in the cold, exiled from his own paradise.

*******

**III Caught-off-guard kiss  
**

**Excuse me, aren't you...? (AU)**

**_about a week ago I was outside of 1020 meeting some friends and this senior dude comes up to me, really nice and friendly–but also quite intoxicated–and says something like, “dude, thanks for coming to my party last week, thanks for setting it up with me, it was such a big help, you’re the man” and I was like, “uh, I don’t think I was there,” and he gives me a look and goes, “wait a second!” Which was kinda funny._  
Timothée Chalamet, Interview with Bwog.com **

After nearly a year of no work apart from one line - that gets cut - in a Russell Crowe kidnap movie (currently 35% on Rotten Tomatoes), and a student short about preppie vampires which he really hopes never sees the light of youtube, his agent suddenly hits a gold streak and Timmy gets put up for a bunch of stuff. He thinks all the auditions go horribly, but he ends up with a couple of ads: one is for an electric-blue energy drink which tastes like ass, where he’s a nerdy guy who tries a sip and starts breaking up rocks and lifting cars with one hand etc etc; the other is for a car where he’s a piano player looking at a girl, or the car? Or both? The motivation is hazy but he does his best to look wistful. The director gets a thing about his jawline and spends a whole morning getting the lighting just so, and he has to admit he looks good in it. There are even a few proper roles. He gets Brazil Envoy, a repeating character on _Planetstar VII: Mayhem Protocols_ where he’s the lead’s moody younger brother who gets cryogenically unfrozen in the 31st century but has all the mannerisms and vocabulary of a 21st century teen. His lines are mainly things like “hey man I didn’t ASK to get unfrozen” and his character is massively unpopular with the fans, so the finale of Season 4 has him getting shot after he has a tantrum, steals an escape pod and his brother and half the crew chase him to a hostile enemy planet. The producer clears a lot of the cast out in that one, including the lead who wants more money per ep, and all the women over twenty-nine. And Timmy, who gets cryogenically frozen right back up again. _Planetstar VII_ fans post pictures of themselves celebrating. He grows his hair out and puts on a little muscle, does a good off-Broadway show, and then gets a quieter repeat role in an HBO drama about a hot girl activist where he’s the younger brother again, but this time he’s sensitive and vulnerable and his coming out story arc gets a positive response.

It’s about this time that he starts to get recognised. Well, not quite recognised, sort of... adjacently noticed? People start to double-take on him, looking at him a couple of seconds longer than is polite. Sometimes they smile at him, or say ‘hey’, vaguely, as if they should know his name but can’t quite place him. He guesses it’s because his look is pretty casual and he’s always just out on the street, not walking around like someone who thinks they’re famous or worth paying attention to or anything crazy, so people presume that he’s not. Sometimes they seem to know he’s an actor: there’re a few times he writes out autographs and nice messages to people who are enthusing about how much they liked his work in some Netflix series he wasn’t in and then he sees them squint at his scrawl and say ‘thanks T..um..ee?” But most often, the people who talk to him think he’s someone else completely.

So once he’s in a hotel bar, waiting for his agent, when a lady comes up to him and says “Now weren’t you at Regis with my son Dent?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “Yes, you were, I’m sure. Swim team? Or Debate? You’re not at Harvard with him though…?” and then she talks for a quite a long time about Dent and a bunch of other people called things like Brunton and Fulcrum and he can’t find a way to interrupt before she says, “well, I must go, but if you’re not busy…”, she leans in on a wave of Chanel No 5, kisses him on the cheek with a distinctly un-momish linger and whispers “Room 230...” in his ear. 

Another time he’s in a coffee shop, headphones on, not thinking about anything in particular when a girl kicks his chair and says “Hey asshole. Stay away from Amanda OK? Don’t call her, stop fucking leading her on, just stay away.” She stalks off and he has to go because everybody’s looking at him like they hate him and he can’t explain that he doesn’t know anybody called Amanda.

Or there’s the drunk senior gentleman outside of 1020 who’s all over him thanking him for helping set up his party, which apparently he was the life and soul of, and once he’s extricated himself and promised to be at the guy’s cookout on Sunday, this scary-looking dude in the bar puts a wrap of coke in his hand and says ”‘We straight now?” and disappears. 

And then one evening, Timmy is slumped in a booth of another lonely hotel bar, a fancier one than he’s used to, this time in London. He came all this way to read for a small part in a Curtis-esque rom-com but he’s pretty sure they're not into him. He’s scrolling and sending mopey texts which everyone is ignoring, still half-drugged with jetlag and waiting until he might be tired enough to sleep. So he’s caught off-guard when there’s suddenly someone speaking, close-by. He has just enough time to raise his eyes, take in a broad chest and unreal shoulders, and the fact that he’s looking at actual Armie actual Hammer, before he realises that Armie is talking to _him_.

“Wow, hey.” Armie is staring at him with this shocked expression. ”This is _crazy_. What are you doing in London…?”

Timmy just gawps. He _loves_ Armie Hammer. He’s watched _The Social Network_ a bunch of times and he admires him as an actor and he admires him as a man, a really big, _beautiful_ man, with a voice that in real life, reaches out and curls around Timmy’s body like a cashmere blanket.

“Not that you shouldn’t be but I mean what are the chances? Seriously, I haven’t seen you since… well... you know... and then to run into you here?” He seems to hesitate before he adds, “Actually, I’ve been feeling bad about it… may I?” he gestures to the booth and Timmy, still dumbstruck, nods. He sits down, close, like, closer than you might expect someone to sit, even if you did think you knew someone and you hadn’t seen them “since...well...you know” and what did _that_ mean? Timmy’s immediately conscious of his body warmth and the sheer mass of man next to him. Armie Hammer (jesus, Armie _Hammer_ ) is looking straight at him.

“Did you change your hair ... grow it out maybe?” Armie says, squinting at him. His eyes are luminous, so blue, more like the rich blue of the desirable car than the fake blue of the ass-tasting drink.

“Ah, thing is…” Timmy starts but then the waiter comes over and Armie orders a scotch. “You want another?” he asks gesturing at Timmy's orange juice.

“No thank you,” he says faintly.

“Yeah, I should apologise, I really meant to be in touch but my schedule has been crazy, and well," he reaches out and taps Timmy's wrist with one finger, "you didn’t reach out either.”

Timmy clears his throat: he’s going to say something, any minute now, and clear this whole thing up. Any minute now. He’s just going to watch Armie Hammer’s mouth talking to him for ten more seconds.

Armie’s scotch arrives. He takes a drink.

“I have to confess something and you’re gonna think I’m a dick. I’m embarrassed. I saved your number as ‘Starshirtguy’, because of your shirt you know? I, ah, I forgot your name.”

He shows Timmy his phone and Timmy looks down at the screen where Starshirtguy’s number glares up at him, accusingly.

“You’re offended. I knew it, you do think I’m a dick.”

“No,” Timmy manages, “I don’t think that.” But now you’ve said it, he adds in his mind, I’m definitely thinking _about_ your dick.

“But I was a little out of it, I guess,” Armie goes on. “I hope I wasn’t rude or anything.”

Armie drinks again and Timmy watches his mouth on the rim of the glass, the liquor on his lips, his tongue licking it away. He jumps when the glass chinks back down on the glass-topped table.

“I mean…” Armie’s voice drops another few notches, “We had a pretty good time, right?”

And before Timmy can reply, which he was definitely going to do, definitely, before this got any weirder, Armie stretches an arm up over the back of the booth and touches Timmy’s nape with the tip of a finger, strokes up the side of his neck. “And, ah, I feel like maybe we had some unfinished business.”

Timmy swallows and watches Armie notice.

“I’d like to make it up to you. How about I kiss you again?”

Timmy should say no, obviously. It will be hella awkward but he should say no. But he isn’t saying no, in fact, he’s nodding, yep, that would be him nodding, and now Armie is pulling him in to kiss him and it’s very gentle but there’s this force behind it, like Timmy’s on the other side of a door with the wind buffeting against it and any minute now it’s going to fly open and he’ll be blown away.

“Oh wow, that’s even…” Armie leans in, kisses him again, real slow, tasting him, like actually dipping his tongue into Timmy’s mouth as he keeps their lips just touching, “even nicer… I guess I was pretty drunk when we met, I didn’t realise you were so soft, god, you’re _gorgeous_ …”

His arm comes down around Timmy’s waist and he draws him in closer, and just that has Timmy so hard he has to shut his eyes to keep his breathing regular.

“Are you busy? Now? Or later? Do you wanna come upstairs with me? I feel like I owe you, I wasn’t at my best last time and you deserve my full attention…”

Of course this is another opportunity for Timmy to tell the truth. There’s another opportunity when they get to the elevator and have this intense, silent thirty seconds while they wait for it to arrive and he can see the two of them reflected in the mirrored doors, and Armie hooks their little fingers together. Or he could clear things up once they’re in the elevator and Armie crowds him up against the glass wall and doesn’t kiss him, but just stands over him and stares right at him all the way up through the floors. And then when it stops, Armie leans over and hits the button to stop the doors opening and says, “I didn’t realise how lucky I’d gotten last time. I’m going to do it properly tonight. I’m going to eat you up.” And Timmy should say it then, about how there hadn’t been a last time, only his voice has gone as weak as his knees and what should have been a confession becomes a whispered “sure”, which makes Armie laugh.

And after that, when they've got as far as Armie's room, it feels too late once Armie is kissing him again, for _hours_ it feels like, and undressing him while they’re still standing up against the wall. 

When Armie has him down to his briefs, he stops and does the fierce, close look thing again, and says, “Ready?” This is it, the last chance, the very last moment to do the right thing but he just nods, and Armie picks him up like he weighs nothing and Timmy curls round him and lets himself be dropped onto the bed. Armie is still dressed and he keeps his eyes on Timmy while he unbuttons his shirt and pulls off his belt, unclasping his heavy watch in a way that makes some new feeling in Timmy unfurl itself. Armie extracts his wallet and his phone from his pocket and moves unhurriedly to put them on the bedside table. The phone chirps and Armie glances at it.

“Oh, haha - it’s you Starshirtguy, you texted me. Wait. What?”

Timmy pulls the sheet all the way up to his eyes. He thinks about running out of the room but he’s nearly naked and he doesn’t know where his shoes are.

“You texted me to say you’re in LA and do I wanna hook up?” The phone chirps again. “And if I can’t remember, your name is Greg.”

He stares at the text, then down at Timmy, then back at his phone, and then he pulls the sheet away from Timmy’s face and looks at him like he’s seeing him for the first time, despite all that staring in the elevator.

“You’re not Greg,” Armie says, flatly.

Timmy shakes his head.

“So who the fuck _are_ you?”

A terrible thought occurs to Timmy: oh god, he has _assaulted_ Armie Hammer. Armie Hammer wanted to kiss Starshirtguy Greg, he didn’t want to kiss Timmy and Timmy is a monster who just went ahead and let himself be kissed by someone who hadn’t technically consented to kissing him.

“Shit, how _old_ are you?”

“21, I’m 21, I swear. Look it’s OK... I’ll just go, I’m really sorry.” 

He starts to scramble out of the bed but Armie grabs his ankle, wrestles him down and kneels over him.

“What’s your name? Your _real_ name.”

“Timothée.”

“Yeah right.”

“It’s French!”

“But you’re American.”

“Uh-huh. NYC.”

“Why are you in London?”

“I’m an actor, I’m up for …”

“Of course you are,” groans Armie. 

“I’m not gonna tell anybody if that’s what you’re worried about.” Timmy’s beginning to feel put out. It wasn’t his fault Armie couldn’t remember the names of the trail of heart-broken men he’d left in his wake.

“But Tim.. Timo… what was it again?”

“Timmy’s fine.”

“OK, _Timmy_ , why didn’t you say ‘uh excuse me Mr Hammer I think you’ve got the wrong guy’ before you let me drag you up here?”

“‘Mr Hammer’? Is that what I should be calling you?”

Timmy tries something, just a little bit, just in case, a small facsimile of struggle, tilting his hips up where Armie’s spread legs are caging them. Armie’s body presses back, shifts more of his weight down onto Timmy, keeping him still.

“Do you usually go upstairs after two minutes of conversation with strange men you meet in hotel bars?”

“I don’t know, you just sort of pounced on me! You kissed me! And…”

“And…?”

Armie’s voice is still growly but there’s a little bit of a smile in his eyes, maybe.

“And I uh, I wanted to see what would happen.”

“I guess I did catch you off guard.” Armie has hold of one of Timmy’s wrists and now he gets hold of the other, pinning them against the sheet over Timmy’s head.

“Is that what you did to Greg?” 

“Who? Oh - right yeah, to be honest, he was kind of annoying. And now I’m not sure how I could ever have mistaken you for him.”

He’s looking at Timmy’s mouth and instinctively Timmy licks his lips. Armie grins, not entirely nicely.

“You wanna start over?” he asks.

“What?”

“Come here.” Amie pulls Timmy up to his feet, wraps him in the sheet and hustles him to the door, opens it, pushes Timmy into the corridor and says, “Knock and I’ll let you in.” The door slams shut and Timmy is left standing there naked but for his briefs and the sheet bunched up round him. He knocks immediately. 

“Just a minute,” he hears Armie call faux-brightly from inside. The elevator at the end of the hallway dings. 

“Let me in!” he hisses and knocks again.

“One second, be right with you.”

He hears the elevator doors open and he clutches the sheet to his chest as a couple come down the corridor towards him, dressed up like they’ve been to the opera. They don’t bat an eyelid as they pass him; the man says ‘Good evening,” and the lady says over her shoulder, “Hello there Sebastian. Do tell your mother we’re looking forward to seeing her at Henley.”

“Uh sure,” he replies.

He raises his hand to knock again but before he can, Armie opens the door. He’s put his shirt back on. He looks Timmy up and down and says “Can I help you?”

“Uh … hi.. I’m Ti…”

He doesn’t get any further. Armie pulls him in by his sheet and unravels him from it, kisses him.

“Sssh,” kisses him some more, “‘m fucking with you, would have recognised you anywhere.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Cinema Paradiso scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5FrmWZJXEOU)
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> etal-later @tumblr


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